


Rust and Well Water

by LookingForDroids



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst, Bullying, Cannibalistic urges, Character Study, F/F, Rating is purely for language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 03:17:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4331736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LookingForDroids/pseuds/LookingForDroids
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Ymir has nightmares, sometimes.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>They're always the same, or at least they're never very different.</i>
</p><p>(Titan shifters still feel hunger. Ymir freaks out about it.)</p><p>Written for a prompt on the kinkmeme: http://snkkink.dreamwidth.org/8414.html?thread=8027614#cmt8027614</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rust and Well Water

Ymir has nightmares, sometimes.

They're always the same, or at least they're never very different. The ground below is dim and blurred, and she's tall, the crown of her head brushing the branches of trees, her spindly legs stretching down and down. Sometimes tiny creatures dart across the field of her vision, quick, dark, noisy things fleeing from her bounding gait, her grasping claws. Sometimes they get away. Sometimes, she catches one.

When she wakes up, she always knows she was a titan in her dream, even if the details slip from her hands and dissipate the way her memories of that time always do. She doesn't know if it's memory or imagining, what she sees in her sleep, but she rolls out of bed in the early hours, scrubs at her face and her hands with wash-water that still has chunks of ice floating in it until the chill cuts through her unnatural body heat and leaves her human skin raw and stinging. She curses, spits, washes out her mouth with freezing water that tastes of dirt and metal, and it's a better taste than the one she can't help remembering, so she's not about to complain. On those mornings, she always gives her share of breakfast to Sasha, but only because Christa won't ever take it.

While she's dreaming, she never knows what she is, or understands what she's doing. She's never been able to decide if she's thankful for that or not.

~

After the trial, once they've finally gotten Eren back, no one except Mikasa and Armin - not even Ymir - knows what to make of the friend they've regained, or the monster in their midst. They step carefully around him, though she can see them trying not to show it. As for herself, she avoids the topic entirely, grateful that everyone else seems content to do the same. Until one morning over breakfast in the barracks, with all of them together for once and preparations underway to venture _outside_ for the first time in most of their lives, Sasha opens her big mouth and asks "do they eat people because they're hungry?"

Ymir glowers into her bowl of oat porridge, wishing she had tea to go with it, something bitter or something stronger. It was only a matter of time before one of them asked it, and it figures it'd be Sasha. That girl doesn't always think before she speaks, and of course she'd be curious, out of fear or just because her mind is permanently stuck on hunger. But the others, of course they have to be wondering.

Eren doesn't look happy to answer. He looks up from his place at the table like a cornered animal before he breathes out slow, visibly forcing himself to relax. Ymir occupies herself with picking at a scab on her elbow, and tries not to look like she's listening to whatever he's about to say.

"It's," he says, halting. "It's an urge, it's... Yeah. They do."

"You can ignore it," though, Sasha says. A little fear, maybe, yeah. A little respect.

"Yeah," he says. "As long as I remember who I am."

That seems to place him on firmer ground, or at least able to fake it well enough to fool her eyes. What he doesn't say, though - and Ymir knows he knows it - is that the urge doesn't go away. It's not always noticeable, and when it is, it's not usually bad. But sometimes it comes out of nowhere, just sneaks up and hits you like a bastard - a pain, a tug like an invisible line, drawing you to whoever's closest.

He's right, though. You can ignore it. As long as you remember who you are.

The others glance at Eren across the table, and at each other, saying nothing. She can feel their nervousness, the way they fidget in their seats, not wanting to be too quick or too obvious about moving away. They're his friends. They don't want to be afraid of him, and he doesn't want that either, and it's probably a relief for everyone when Jean says what they're all bound to be thinking.

"You sure about that?"

"He's sure," Mikasa says. "Leave him alone." Her expression is hard, controlled, and the last thing Ymir wants is for this to escalate, or at least not in that particular direction.

 _Fuck it,_ she thinks. _Fuck it all._ She leans back in her chair, lazy and casual, and says "guess we're just lucky that it's Eren who's the titan in this group, and not" - she lets her eyes slide in Sasha's direction - "someone else."

Sasha flushes, looks down, and puts the spoonful of porridge she'd been lifting to her mouth very deliberately back in the bowl. It's no surprise to see Mikasa half rising from her seat, calm eyes and a fighter's grace, and yeah, Mikasa could probably kick her ass if she ever decided it wasn't a waste of effort, but it's Bertl who says "quit picking on her. She hasn't done anything to you."

And he's right. She hasn't. The only one in this room who's done anything to anyone is -

Fuck.

Ymir gives him a pointed grin. "Whatever you say, big guy."

And then she pushes back her chair and heads out, into the early morning cold with her bowl of porridge still half uneaten. Armin's eyes follow her out the door, tracking her like she's something to worry about, and hell, maybe she is. Not that he would have any reason to know about that.

Ymir doesn't like that kid. She doesn't hate him either, but he makes her nervous, with those wide blue eyes of his, that ticking clockwork brain. She's never liked anybody who watches too much and says too little and never lets on what they're really thinking.

Well. Christa's all right. She likes Christa fine.

Anybody else, they can kiss her bony titan ass.

~

Once she's out of sight of the mess hall, out of sight of everyone else's watchful eyes, she lets herself break into a light jog and doesn't stop until she's at the pump on the edge of the grounds, the one so far away that no one ever uses it. The exertion is good - pushes away the kind of restless thoughts that never vanish completely, only recede until the shadows are long again. The solitude is better. But even that isn't good enough.

It's not that it's getting to her. She's lived with herself for three years in the military and two on her own before that, so it's not like she's going to let it start bothering her now. But she needs a drink of water, because her mouth tastes like rust and bile and she can't get Eren's haunted look out of her head, or any if the rest of it. She wants to claw off her own skin or climb out of it, and with most of her breakfast still cooling on the table, she can't tell whether she's sick to her stomach or hungry or both.

She works the pump until water splashes into the bucket, takes a long draught and then upends the rest of it over her head. The bracing cold hits her like a fist to the face, knocking some clarity back into her.

That's not a blessing, exactly. And when she hears footsteps coming up the path behind her, the light and too careful rhythm of a gait she recognizes without thinking, that's practically a curse.

Christa. Of course it would be. The one person she always wants to see, the one person in this whole bullshit world she can never say no to, and so of course it had to be Christa who decides to follow her out here, right when she wants to be alone.

Because it's simple. When she's awake, she can always remember who she is. She'd never hurt her friends, and almost none of those other bustards neither, less they try and hurt her first. But - fuck, she's not always awake, now, is she? And when Christa sneaks into her bunk after hours, just lays her head on Ymir's chest and wraps an arm around Ymir's waist and falls asleep like that, too close and too trusting... Ymir can't deny that she's thought about things that shouldn't ever be thought of.

And she wouldn't. She knows she wouldn't. But that's not good enough. 

Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck._

She ought to find urgent business somewhere else, but there's no time before Christa marches right up to her and says "do you want to tell me what that was all about, back there?"

That's Christa for you. Plays the angel, but she doesn't flinch when it matters. Gotta respect that. And the least Ymir can do is return the courtesy. Can't tell the truth, but that doesn't mean she can't be honest, so she takes a deep breath and gets the words out.

"Look, I have bad dreams, OK? Some shit happened to me, and it screwed me up in the head, and now I have these nightmares. And I don't want to hurt you, and I don't think I will, is the thing, but I can't really promise I won't."

And Christa just looks at her, slow and assessing but not really surprised.

"Ymir," she says, "I've seen these nightmares of yours. You never looked like you were about to hurt anyone. But you know what? I joined the Scouting Legion. I'm here. The odds are good I'll end up on a funeral pyre before I turn twenty-five, and that's assuming there's enough left of me to burn. I don't think there's anything you could do to me, on purpose or by accident, that's worse."

"So we're gonna die young," Ymir retorts. "Don't mean you gotta hurry it along."

Christa's eyes narrow, and she grabs Ymir's hand before she can move back, grips so tightly Ymir would need more than human strength to extricate herself even if she wanted to.

"You want me to live for myself?" she says. "I think I'm allowed to choose the risks I get to take."

And then she lets go, looking abashed, like she's dared something unthinkable. Ymir winces, shaking some sensation back into her fingers. It's always a surprise how strong Christa is, whenever she forgets not to be. But now she's gone and remembered that good girls hold their tempers in check, and she's curled back into herself, smaller than she really is and far more empty. It's a look Ymir thought she'd been seeing less of lately, and now it's back, and Ymir can't tell what's more dangerous, keeping her close or pushing her away.

 _I'm the monster,_ she wants to say, _I'm the ogre in the fairy tale, I could swallow you whole and snap your bones between my teeth and leave nothing behind for anyone to remember you by._

And she _wants_ to, is the worst of it, even though she won't, even though she knows herself, or thinks she does. Wanting is bad enough. Looking at her, seeing that fragile package of muscle and bone that calls itself a person, feeling the ache in the pit of her stomach and knowing exactly what it would take to end it - yeah, that's bad. Her mouth waters at the thought, and she wishes she'd thought to save some water to chase away the imagined taste of blood and fat and marrow on her tongue.

"Just so long as you know," she says. "I'm not kidding about being screwed in the head. I might lose it one of these days, and just."

"Stab me in your sleep? I'll believe that when it happens, Ymir. Which it hasn't. And it won't."

"Yeah," Ymir says. She looks down at the mud caking her boots, remembering the ground seen from a long way away and thinking it would be so much easier if she could say it, all of it, and let the dice fall how they will. But she can't, not without leaving Christa alone with the wolves in the military, and she's not going to do that even if she might be one of them. She's hungry, but she can live with it. She has before. And someone's gotta stick around to look out for Christa.

 _Selfish,_ she thinks, but what she says as they head back is "just be careful, OK?"

"As careful as I need to be," Christa says, angry, one more sign of her other self shining through. Ymir just wishes she could believe it.

~

She runs into Eren outside the main barracks, watching the preparations for the expedition with what looks like only half a mind on the present. Not that she's looking for him, or anything like that. Not that she's worried.

"I ain't scared of you," she tells him. "Just so you know."

"Thanks," he says.

"Who says it was a compliment."

"Fine," he says. "Screw you." But he's smiling a little, some of the strain gone from the corners of his mouth, and she's pretty sure that means that for once in her life, she's done exactly what she should have.

"Wanna fight?" she asks. "Let off some steam?"

He hesitates, then pushes off from the fence and falls into a defensive stance, letting her make the first move. She throws herself into it, doesn't waste her time with strategy, just moves in quick and doesn't her best to hit him where it counts. She can't really hurt him, and he doesn't know it but he can't really hurt her, but hurting each other's not the point. They fight like street brawlers, bare knuckles and elbows, dirty tactics, no holds barred except that neither of them goes for a weapon and both of them draw the line at teeth. She gets a knee to his balls, and he doubles over with a strangled sound but comes back swinging, a feint from the left and an uppercut to the face. She feels her head snap back, bites her lip, tastes pain and blood. He stops, concerned, but a shake of her head and a roll of her shoulders and she's fine again.

Still, she's not stupid, and she lets him think he's gotten her good. Brings a hand up to her temple, swearing with all the creativity the gods gave her, though she waves off the helping hand he offers.

"Hey, Ymir?" he says. "Thanks, really."

"No problem. You ever wanna get your ass kicked again, you know who to talk to."

"Might just do that," he says. "Are you sure you're alright?"

He frowns at her, looking so worried she almost feels guilty. She's sure the last thing he wants right now is to hurt one of his friends, or whatever it is he counts her as, seeing as she hasn't exactly made an effort to be friendly.

"Shaken up," she says, "but it's nothing to worry about. I always get back on my feet quickly."

She holds out a hand for him to shake, gives him a punch in the arm instead when he's dumb enough to take it, and she can tell be the _almost_ amused look he gives her that she's convinced him she's fine, or at least that she deserves it.

She probably does deserve it. But someone needs to remind him that he ain't all that, and not everyone's gonna tiptoe around him like he's a bundle of explosives waiting to go off. Someone needs to make him prove to himself that no one needs to. And hey, maybe she could stand a lesson like that herself. She leaves him glaring after her and muttering retribution, not quite serious, and looking less hollow than she's seen him since the morning.

That dealt with, there's one more thing she needs to take care of.

~

She corners Sasha out by one of the storage sheds, leaning with one arm against the wall, blocking the way past. Casual, habitual intimidation. She could probably stop being a bully if she tried. Probably easier to stop being a bully than a monster, so maybe she should. And maybe it's Christa's terrible influence, or maybe it's just that feeling guilty all the time is getting boring, but it doesn't really matter which. Only thing that matters is what she says next.

"I'm sorry for what I said earlier."

Sasha blinks, face going blank, and Ymir knows it's not what she'd been expecting to hear. It's kind of funny - Sasha bracing herself for insults, only to be bowled over by an apology - except for the part where it's suddenly, stupidly sad.

"That shit you got into at breakfast, it brought up some bad memories. That's all. I didn't mean anything by it."

"You don't mean anything by any of it, do you," Sasha says, and Ymir is reminded once again that just because she doesn't always think before she speaks doesn't mean she doesn't think at all.

"No more than you sorry motherfuckers can handle," she says. "I have to admit, though, what you did on that first day in training took some guts."

"Stealing from the stores?"

"Nah. Getting caught."

This time, when Sasha gapes at her like a hooked fish, Ymir actually does laugh. "You think we couldn't tell? There's a reason Connie likes you."

"I thought..."

"That _we_ all thought you were a little starving brat with no self control. Yeah, I know."

With that, Ymir moves so that she isn't blocking the way any longer, just leaning back and looking at the sky, leaving Sasha ample opportunity to make her getaway if she chooses. But Sasha lingers, biting her bottom lip, until Ymir loses her patience and says "out with it."

"D'you really think I would - that if I was like Eren, d'you think - "

"You might. But not because you're a pig or anything. That's just what titans do."

"Eren doesn't," she says.

"Yeah, well. Eren." Ymir grins. "That kid's got all his bloodlust pointed in a different direction."

Sasha nods like it makes sense, shifts on her feet like she wants to be somewhere else. Ymir can't really blame her. She's at a loss herself, unbalanced by that apology and the advantage she's ceded, and she falls back on familiar ground. "This doesn't mean you don't still owe me."

Sasha makes a sour face. "Reckon at this rate, I'm gonna be owing you until the end of time."

Ymir shrugs. "That's just how some debts go." She pushes off from the wall of the shed, but before she turns back to the main barracks, she says "if it's any consolation, I owe the rest of you guys too."

~

That's just how some debts go. And she owes Christa enough to let her own choices, no matter what they are. She wants to try for dead by twenty-five, that's her prerogative, even if Ymir's got no plans of sitting and letting it happen. And when Christa slips into Ymir's bunk that night, draws her knees up and folds herself comfortably against the angles of Ymir's body, Ymir doesn't kick her out. Maybe it is weakness. Maybe she _is_ that selfish. But hearing Christa's contented sigh, feeling her gradually relax as Ymir strokes her hair and hums a tuneless old folksong that nobody from inside the Walls seems to know, it's hard to say for sure.

She dreams that night of running through the forest, towering sequoias and rain and small dark shapes fleeing before her. She wakes, heart pounding, sweat prickling on her skin like steam trying to escape. Christa is there, curled up by her side, even her sleep undisturbed. Safe.

Snoring, too, and drooling on Ymir's pillow, which is cute, and not something Ymir's going to let her forget. Ymir lets herself look for a second at the way her hair spills across the bed, the delicate curve of her throat and the flush of blood running beneath. Then she pulls the blanket up over Christa's shoulders, and rolls onto her back to look at the grain of wood above instead, and think about anything except dreams as she waits for the morning to come.


End file.
